Shit that used to matter.

What a mess this city is. Real people are getting harder to find. Colors stop making sense the moment you start thinking they oughta. Know what I mean, jelly-bean? 'Meaningless' gets a whole new meaning, seeing the city from way up there...

And how hard it is to keep going... It feels like every line will have to be the last, since there's never any assurance of what the next will look like. Still we keep at it, hopeless from the get go.

Real people. Photographs. Snapshots. The look of the word on the virtual page. The sound of sandals slapping the asphalt, running their way into the ground again and again, kneading against the concrete. The smile of the real person already hiding. First time we met like nothing. The next time, a little less. And each time after like we're both hoping it's the last. And the worst part? How aggravatingly nice we are to each other—if only because we both know we'd get along fine if either of us could give in and give up the initial pretenses we simultaneously rely on. How so? It's the flowers, bright and perky, but utterly lacking that requisite sweetness of fragrance able to christian us 'flowers' at all.

My frustration is strong and short-lived each time, so that i'm ready for an all-out-brawl just long enough to disappear, and by the time I come back to the ring i've forgotten my destruction somewhere out on the town; lost my drive on the side of the street. Well the hell with it, anyway—heaven knows my counterpart has yet to earn my history, whatever the mysterious fuck that could possibly mean.

-L (10/29/10)